


Complete

by ElvenMaia



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Emotional Hurt, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Maedhros POV, No Slash, POV First Person, Poor Maedhros, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Self-Reflection, Sibling Bonding, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:27:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22787161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenMaia/pseuds/ElvenMaia
Summary: Maedhros was having a difficult recovery after what happened in Thangorodrim, and Maglor has finally come to see him for the first time since the event. Together they learn that that which is broken can be mended, and together, they are more complete.
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Complete

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything of Tolkien’s**

**Rated** for unresolved emotional trauma (and I’m slightly paranoid)

Complete

He settled down beside me. It was the first time I’d seen him clearly in thirty years. The first time I could really look upon his face, and it brought an ache to my heart.

Inwardly, I scoffed. _Do I even have a heart?_ Did I really believe that? Then what was this pain? This pulsing void of nightmares inside my chest? Is this what Morgoth had reduced me to? A miscreant crawling along the teetering edge of devouring darkness; insanity. A shattered glory; a broken shell. A broken shell of who Maitimo once was.

But seeing his face brought me that pain. Smiling, musical lips and bright, youthful eyes burned to ash. Now the lips were silent; the eyes tainted, clouded with the unmistakable mark of death. Perhaps he had gone through a torment of his own these past years. Perhaps Morgoth had broken them all.

I could feel myself weakening and searched within myself that anger I had so easily summoned back in the cesspool of horror I had called my own. Down in the blackest pits of the enemy I festered, and an enemy festered inside of me. _Is that was had become of my heart?_

When I had felt nothing, that is what had kept me going. Something needed to fill the shell to keep it alive.

Screams tore through my memory. The ringing of steel, the rattle of iron bands, the rough feel of cold stone, the reek of blood and burning flesh. I cried for them. _Where are you, brother? Where are you?_

But no one came.

Rock scraped against my back, and my feet sought purchase in the sheer precipice. I would not find it. Just like I would not find the vigor that had once filled me. Just like my family would not find me. I vainly held onto the hope that someone cared, that someone thought about me, or had made an effort to look.

But no one came.

Banners fluttered through the fog. _Home_. My heart ached for it, screamed for it. Suddenly I was reminded of the touch of grass; a warm embrace. The desperation I felt within brought my heart to life. So I knew it was there.

But then it was gone. The banners disappeared into wisps of cloud, and so did my heart. The devouring darkness took its place; shattered the glory; filled the shell with that void of insanity. This was the new Maitimo. The very name mocked my existence. _Maitimo_.

_Maitimo is no more. The name is blasphemous to who I am now._ It was what everyone believed I was. And eventually, so did I.

I screamed and screamed my heart out to the clouds. _Home_. How _badly_ I wanted it. How _badly_ my heart ached for it, for it was still there.

Tyelko was a tracker. The very best. He could find me. One could do anything if they wanted it bad enough. I loved my brothers. They loved me. Or did they? Did they even look for me? Did they wonder what had happened? _Of course they did, of course they did_ , I told myself.

_Where are you, my brothers? Where are you?_

But no one came.

The memory of that feeling had long died. Hope had died. But then what was left?

I looked out at the dismal plains before the foot of Thangorodrim. The never ending mist. Battering rain and wind unkind that swayed me like a lifeless doll. But that’s what I was, wasn’t I?

That’s when the anger became known to me. That’s when I realized: they were not coming. The anger burned like a black flame, ever present and constant. But I nursed the flame; fed it. The shell needed life. And so it festered.

But then I heard the song. It brought to life the ache in that cursed heart of mine I had tried for decades to quiet. Now the black flame had been cast inward. I did not want this pain. I did not want this heart.

‘ _Kill me. Kill me Fingon, for I am broken. There is nothing left of me.’_

But I was denied once again. My heart throbbed more than ever, but I was not angry at Fingon. For I had once again felt the touch of grass; his warm embrace. That was almost worth all the pain, for someone believed that I was a worth it. Believed that I was a _somebody_ other than _Maitimo_ , this tainted and mutilated form of life.

But now my anger was gone. I wondered what was keeping me alive now.

I looked back over at Makalaurë. Worry lines creased his face and shadows had settled under his eyes. He looked at me. He didn’t know what to say. All was well; for neither did I. I took his hand in my own. Callouses still lined his fingers from plucking that silly harp of his. New ones lined his palm from wielding a sword.

Blood tainted us all.

But he still sang. I had heard Makalaurë sing as he wandered the empty plains of night. When he thought no one was listening, I had let his songs fill my heart. He felt guilty. He was sorry. He still loved me. But how much?

He was here. That brought him pain. Seeing me brought him pain. I reminded him of his failure. I could see it in his face, and he had said so himself, in his songs. The songs were no longer joyful, no longer brought eager thrums of joy to the heart, but they were just enough to keep mine beating. Now the songs were mournful, lamenting a scattered people and fallen glory; the heavy burden on his shoulders that he was never meant to carry.

Makalaurë. Sweet brother. Little songbird. _Sing for me brother, sing._

I squeezed his hand and looked into his eyes again. He wanted to talk. I could see his heart through them. Absently, I wondered what he saw when he looked into my eyes. Wondered if that blasted heart was still there. If it was, I didn’t feel it now.

“I hear they call you Maglor now.” It was I who had spoken. Thirty years since I had seen him and this is what I say? I scoffed again.

“It is of the language of Elwë’s people. Sindarin it is called. It is being used much more widely now.”

I nodded. A few more beats of silence passed. Makalaurë fidgeted uncomfortably. Strange. Makalaurë was always the best mannered child; he never fidgeted. _He is a child no longer_ , I reminded myself as I rubbed over the callouses again.

I caught him staring at my arm where it disappeared into the linen covers. He quickly looked away but I huffed out an empty laugh and cocked my head to the side with an almost cat-like sly curiosity. Gingerly, I lifted my arm, sticking the stump swathed in blood-soaked bandages near his face. It hurt terribly but pain was my old friend. I paid it no mind anymore.

Makalaurë turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut with a flinch, with his brow creased in distress. But I did not care. I huffed out another empty laugh.

_Empty, just like the rest of me._

“Maitimo, please...”

“Do you fear me, brother?” It was an honest question. I pretended the use of my old name didn’t bother me. It was such a reminder of... what I once was and what I had become.

Makalaurë opened his eyes but did not turn back towards me.

“Do you fear my reaction to seeing you again, after you condemned me to a horror you cannot even begin to dream about?” The black flame wanted to sputter to life, but I kept it hidden. The bitterness was prominent in my voice, though. “Or do you fear _this_ ,” I said, sweeping my left arm out to indicate the unnumbered scars that littered my skin.

I could keep the anger down no longer. The flame leaped to life.

I leaned in close to his face, pretending like I didn’t see him flinch away. “ _Maitimo is dead,”_ I hiss into his ear. “You wanted your brother back, not this.” I settled back against the headboard once again, every bone creaking. The volume of my voice lowered. “Well I am sorry to disappoint you, _Maglor_.”

The words hurt him deeply and I knew it. The black flame devoured the hurt, mocked the hurt, rejoiced because someone other than me was hurting.

This was my brother. My brother who had abandoned me, subjected me to the enemy. But this was also my brother; who sang us to sleep as we piled in the bed on a cold winter night, who went on adventurous escapades with me to flee our younger brothers, who comforted us with his steady hand and reassuring voice, who clasped my shoulder on the eve of battle, and sat beside me now as I lay helpless.

He turned towards me; silver tears were streaming down his face. I stamped out the black flame in disgust.

“Nelyo, I’m so sorry,” he breathed. “I couldn’t— I”

“Makalaurë, can I ask you something?” The bitterness was gone. My eyes were sad and I slouched back against the pillows.

He looked at me but said nothing. I feel like his tears should have brought my heart an ache, but they didn’t.

“Did you even try to look for me? Really, really try?” The question had been on my mind for years and now I was relieved that it was out. I had once hoped a positive answer to the question, but hope died long ago, _remember_?

Makalaurë clawed at his chest as if the words were a physical blow. He was sobbing in earnest now. “Nelyo, oh Nelyo, _please_!” He buried his face in my chest and tried to embrace me as best he could.

Once again I ignored the call of my old friend called pain, and stroked his hair with my remaining hand. I felt nothing.

“I love you, Nelyo, I always did. I would have followed you. To the very end!”

I continued to stroke his hair. I felt something, but couldn’t quite identify what it was.

“I love you too, Makalaurë, but you did not answer my question,” I said gently. It was odd how quickly emotion rose and surged inside, when other times I could feel nothing at all.

His hands clenched fistfuls of my shirt and his sobs intensified as my answer. So it was then. I did not quite know what to do with the information once I had gotten hold of it.

After several minutes, Makalaurë’s tears subsided enough for him to make an inquiry of his own. “Nelyo, do you hate me?”

I wanted to say I was taken aback by the question, but that would not be true. Emotion flooded my chest, but the answer came easily enough.

“Maybe I once did,” I had to pause to keep my voice from cracking, “but I do not now.”

He held onto me tighter, and I found myself doing the same. His scent was comforting and remotely familiar, as if I had known it once in a dream; but happy endings were not for me.

Then, for the first time in many years, tears flooded my eyes, and I cried with him. They dripped into his hair, but I don’t think he noticed. The black flame was extinguished for now.

He shifted in his embrace but did not let go. I was glad; I needed him close.

“I do not know what to say,” he said, his voice barely a whisper and flooded with sorrow.

His voice was so small I was reminded everything of the little Makalaurë from Aman I once knew; I was not the only one who had changed.

The silent tears still falling, I leaned down closer to his ear and whispered: “Sing for me, Makalaurë. _Sing for me.”_

And he sang. My heart took a beat. It was there, and for once, it was filled with something. Something good. Maybe even love.

I drifted off into slumber, holding his hand in my own. I loved my brothers; my family. I always had, and always will. They made my heart full;

Complete.

oOoOoOo

**A/N:** Some background on the name Maitimo: it means ‘well-shaped one’ or something of that nature, so I’m sure Morgoth found it ironic when he ruined that about Maedhros. In this story he referred to himself as the ‘new Maitimo’; basically saying he’s no longer his ‘well-formed’ self, in a grim, bitter humor.


End file.
